Like looking at the sun (she, too, leaves you blind)
by writerwithoutcause
Summary: He remembers her. Always. How could he not? She's a constant presence in his mind, in his life (like her name is on the lips of his people) and ignoring her (forgetting her) would be as hard as trying to kill yourself by holding your breath (you can't do it without help, and no one is in a charitable mood these days, not even the hangmen). Angst. Dark.


He remembers her. Always. How could he not? She's a constant presence in his mind, in his life (like her name is on the lips of his people) and ignoring her (forgetting her) would be as hard as trying to kill yourself by holding your breath (you can't do it without help, and no one is in a charitable mood these days, not even the hangmen).

Sometimes he paints her, and sometimes he dreams her, and sometimes he humms her, but mostly he just breathes her, feels her deep inside of him, aching and twinging like an old wound that never truly healed. But it aches so sweetly, like red scratches and purple bruises and white-ish scars, and he cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot let it go.

(It's too soon, much too soon for that, less than thirty years have passed since-)

And yet there are also times when he cannot bear to think of her. Remember her. Remember his own foolishness at promising her the whole of heaven and earth and putting her through hell. (Because the Archangel Michael that guided her was sometimes him, not a God-sent vision, not an actual angel. And it may seem foolish, but he does - did - does believe that her visions came from God, that she was truly visited by a divine presence.)

But, mostly, he remembers her, and sketches her, and humms her, and yells her, and drinks her (and he loves her and misses her, but those are the same things nowadays, and it truly does hurt too sweetly to let it all go).

(He still hasn't let himself properly mourn her, even if everyone else has. Lost her and mourned her and then let her go, forgotten her. He cannot. It would feel too much like admitting defeat, too much like saying goodbye for him to even consider it when he can still feel her inside him, strong and steady and-dead dead dead.)

She was his saint. It is as simple and straightforward as that. (And she is now his martyr, and he thinks things can't get any more complicated than that.)

She was his. His to raise, his to protect, but not his to kill (no, he only sent her to her death, which, he sometimes thinks, might be even worse). She was his only one. Only she was not. She was one in a billion, and he has had many like her, rulers and subjects and geniuses and madmen, but no one could - can - quite compare. she was unlike any other. She was his only.

She was brilliant. She shone brighter than the sun, even in the dark, even in daylight. (but all stars run out of fuel sooner or later, and the bigger they are, the more daunting the darkness they leave behind.)

She was a fighter. The bravest of the brave. She went to battle side by side with his men, her men, and they were better for it. He still remembers that one time when an arrow pierced her shoulder and, instead of retreating to take care of her wounds, she kept fighting. She won the battle, too, stupid, stubborn, brave little woman. (But there is a fine line between courage and stupidity and some days he thinks not even God knew on which side she was treading.)

She was incredible. The things she was, the things she did, the things she accomplished... if he didn't known any better, he would have said it was all a dream. (Or a nightmare, he can never quite decide.)

She was beautiful, so, so beautiful. She might not have always looked that beautiful on the outside, or composed, or well-groomed, but there was something about her that reminded him of his queens on their coronation days and his kings on the days they won the wars - (And perhaps it was only him who thought so, but he didn't think so, because, in the end, when it all came down to it-) she was a woman and she was a leader and she was an idea. And she took his - their - breath away without even trying.

She was everything and she was nothing and she was all that at once, and it gave him a headache, just thinking about it, but he could never quite bring himself not to think of her.

She was his saint, his brilliant, incredible saint, who lived and fought and bled for him and his future (and she was dead, and that was another thing he could never quite forget, never quite forgive).

Logically, he knows the others must have people like that, too, people who did too much and paid too much and for which they cared too much, but he has never been that good at using empathy for anything else but war, probably never will. And he just doesn't - can't - care about someone else's tragedy as much as he can about his own, so Angleterre and Prusse and Italie can all go to hell on a burning pyre, but mostly Angleterre, mostly that heartless, gutless, thoughtless bastard who-

(Deep breaths, deep breaths, don't let it get to you.)

It's all dead and gone (much like her, much like your pride, much like your heart) and he's only just won the war, isn't quite ready to start another without losing this one (remember, remember, she wouldn't have wanted that, not just because of her, not if you couldn't win). No, if he has to start another war, it'll be for something right, like money and power and freedom, not for one inconsequential human. No one remembers her, anyway, not really - they know stories about her and her glory, but no one truly remembers her anymore, not even the man whom she crowned. He should forget her, too. She's long gone, anyway. She doesn't matter anymore. (And oh, who do you think you're trying to fool?)

Suddenly, he is angry. Well, not exactly all that suddenly - he was angry before, too, is almost always angry, even when he is laughing and dancing and trying to woo some noble lady or another. It's just that his anger suddenly spikes, like a fire that had almost died down and then been rekindled. And maybe it's because people seem to keep forgetting about her, about what she did, but mostly it's because he wants to avenge her so badly he can almost hear Angleterre's screams ringing in his ears. Oh, how he would like to take that lowly scum and just-

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Starts again. Lets his rage go. He wants to scream and shout and let himself finally mourn her, finally let her go, but what he really, really wants is to hurt someone. But the time hasn't come yet, not quite. (So, in the meanwhile, deep breaths.) It's hard and slow and even then he never fully calms down, but it helps.

(Most days, her memory is all that keeps him breathing.)

* * *

Um, yeah, I know there probably are some issues with the way I seem to kick historical accuracy in the nuts and then run away with the most literary (convenient) option, and the research I did involved five minutes on wikipedia and ten minutes trying to remember where I heard about Joan getting injured in battle and still fighting, but I still like the way this turned out, so... yeah.

Angleterre means England in French, Italie means Italy and Prusse means Prussia, for those of you who are as fluent in French as I am (not at all). I write the word "humms" with two m's because I like the way you can almost hear it in your mind when you read the word, despite Autocorrect reminding me that I am merely delusional and should get some help.

Comments are appreciated, as is silence, as are links to articles about Joan of Arc and ways in which she was awesome.

Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!


End file.
